Keeper of Her Tears
by storybycorey
Summary: As Scully deals with an emotionally-charged case, Mulder recalls each of the times he's seen her cry. Angst ensues, then smut ensues thereafter.


I don't know what's wrong with me.

I don't know, and yet… I do know.

It's this case. I've allowed myself to be drawn in; I've let it get personal. I'm usually smarter about the way I handle myself in these sorts of situations, but this case…, this case has ripped at my heart unexpectedly. It's grabbed hold and twisted, then squeezed, and now is laughing in my face at the aftermath, at the devastation it has caused within me.

Two days in West Virginia, and suddenly I am upended. My priorities have been tossed into the air and are now tumbling down, scattered across the soil like acorns, awaiting the crunch of a shoe lest I gather them quickly enough and put them back in order. And I am utterly perplexed as to how I do that. I am lost.

A week ago, I could have recited a doctrine listing my life's priorities, categorized and alphabetized and arranged in order. Those things most important to me were clearly defined- my career, my accomplishments, my health, my family, my home…, all things that made perfect sense for a single woman in her mid-thirties. At least on paper.

But we don't live on paper, do we? We don't live in a to-do list that can be checked off, one item at a time- One accomplishment down! Onto number two! No, we live in slippery flesh and hardened bone and swirling emotion, in joy and chaos and ecstasy and passion.

And I don't know where joy and chaos and ecstasy and passion fit into my controlled, organized life anymore.

…

The first time I saw her cry was in Minnesota, so many years ago it could almost be a lifetime. In that house, that house that sucks at my breath each time I see it in my head. That madman, that fucker… It was painfully close, so close my knees threatened to buckle as I blindly searched for her, and still today, when I think about it too closely.

Her tears took me by surprise that first time. Her stoicism was already ingrained in our relationship by that point. She had seen so much, endured so much by then. I had almost come to believe she was emotionally indestructible, a superhuman.

To say that Scully is a strong woman is an understatement. She's a mountain, majestic and towering and immoveable, rooted deep within the earth. And to see that mountain crumble, even if just slightly, well, I was taken aback, startled, painfully reminded that she is real, she is human.

Even as her quivering voice told me she was "…fine, Mulder…", I myself needed the reassurance more than anything, because honestly, /I/ was not "fine" knowing how close I'd come to losing her. As I lifted her raspberried chin, scraped raw and trembling, I never expected that her liquid eyes would meet mine, that her perfect face would shatter, that her wet tears would spill across my shirt as she softened against me.

I drew her in, my own heart collapsing under the weight of her tears upon my chest. So heavy. Her tears were so heavy, I couldn't breathe for a moment. I felt her salty pain, seeping, pressing against my heart and lungs as I struggled to exist under the intensity.

Until I remembered that I had no right to be in pain. I was not the one suffering, had not just been through this hell. Scully was. And Scully was alive and aching, there beneath me. I pulled her to me closer, and whispered nonsense against her soft, sliding hair, as she continued to crush me with her agony.

And that's when I realized. I realized then that Scully's tears are powerful. They are potent. They are extraordinary. They are all these things, perhaps to nobody else, but they are all these things to /me/.

She withholds them, keeps them in locked reserve until she can suppress them no more. And when she is forced to release the locks, I am powerless against them. They are mighty in their strength, and whether she realizes it or not, she holds me captive with those tears. They bind me to her, more tightly each time I witness them.

And I don't know how many more times I can see them before I break, before I can't stop myself from completely engulfing her in order to take away her pain…

….

We've been here since Wednesday. Yet another pleasant drive in a Ford Taurus with Fox Mulder. Four hours of cracking sunflower seeds, intermittent radio static, and Mulder's grumbles about the validity of our case. We've traded roles this week, as I've become the believer and he the skeptic, which shouldn't surprise me that much. Much to his chagrin, this isn't a typical case for us. There are no monsters, no lights in the sky, no government conspiracies. No, there are no lives being threatened here, unless you consider my own, and even then, I think it is my sanity that is being threatened more than my life.

Much as I hate to say it, maybe a case of our more standard fare would have been preferable. While the bizarre and macabre can be tedious, at least I know what to expect, to some extent. My mind knows how to deal with anomalies of the flesh, oddities of the universe, deviancies of the powerful. Try me, I'll barely bat an eye. But aberrancies of the heart, the soul… with those I am a bit more inept.

No, this is not a case of the painfully grotesque; it is instead a case of the heartbreakingly beautiful. So heartbreakingly beautiful that I fear it has altered me forever. In ways that I'm not sure I'm ready to explore… In ways that I'm afraid will be devastating to explore…

…..

The second time, a hospital.

The sterile room was suffocating, filled with white, billowing pressure as I sat there, powerless. My mind was so full of Modell, his words, his being; he was everywhere inside me. I couldn't fight my way out, couldn't find my own existence amidst all of his weight.

But then Scully strode in, my knight-ess in shining armor, riding not on a white horse, but on sensible, stylish heels. Through the haze, I heard her voice. Her voice, muddy and far away, but it was /her/ voice, strong and metallic, permeating for an instant before the fog rolled back in.

I couldn't focus on her, though I tried; I couldn't focus on anything but Modell's words inside me, "pull the trigger pull the trigger pull the trigger…" Again her voice, but I couldn't understand, couldn't make sense of the jumble of sounds falling from her lips.

Pull the trigger. Once.

Her words, pleading; I tried to turn, to look at her, but Modell was too strong.

Pull the trigger. Twice.

This time, I /felt/ her tears; I /experienced/ them as she saw the gun at my own head. My eyes remained locked on Modell's, but I could feel the liquid welling beneath her blue orbs, threatening to spill out and wash me away from this mess I was in. I tried so hard to grasp onto them, but my fingers slipped through, nothing solid to grip.

I fought against him, but couldn't push away the voice, "shoot her shoot her shoot her." My head turned, my hand pointing the gun at her. Nooo! Not Scully, not my Scully, my savior…

Her eyes, I tried to focus on her eyes. They bore into my soul, and I struggled to focus. And then that tear, that single tear broke through the dam and tumbled down her cheek, splashed onto the table. And though I couldn't wrench myself away to watch it, I could feel it, sense it. It reached for me, connected with me, seeped inside, pulled me back to reality, pulled me back to her.

That tear fed me, it nourished me, it gave me strength for those few more seconds while she pulled the fire alarm.

That tear saved her.

That tear saved /me/.

…

This case is about two people, two hearts, two souls.

Theodore is eighty-nine years old, and Anna eighty-five. Four years apart, my mind supplies, just like Mulder and myself, as if that is relevant somehow.

I sat with them today for several magical hours and listened to their story, told with trembling lips, quivering tongues, and palsied fingers. They lay in two hospital beds, twisted hands stretched across the divide, clasped together, while I sat, enraptured, on a chair between. I was blown away by their beauty, even amidst the glow of heart monitors and the sterility of bleached white sheets.

Theodore grew up in Maryland, and at twenty-two, married Elizabeth, who bore him five wonderful children. A banker by trade, he always considered his life to be happy and abundant, with no complaints. His health had always been good, with no real issues, other than the fact that, at random times, his heart had ached.

As he paused, I asked him what he meant by that. How does one's heart ache? His eyes closed, and with the hand that wasn't held captive by Anna's, he reached to lay his fingers across his chest. "Every so often," his shaking voice rasped, "I would feel a yearning, an ache in my chest, as if my heart were trying to pull away from me, pull itself right out of my body…"

Their clasped hands hung in front of me, dangling between their beds, and I watched as Anna's squeezed his at the description.

I asked him to go on, tell me more. "At times, it was unbearable," he continued, "and I would crush my hands against my chest, as if I could keep my heart within its cavity by the strength of my fingers. But the ache continued, lasting for hours, sometimes days, until gradually, it would fade, and my life would return to normal. The doctors found nothing wrong, and blamed it on stress, but I knew…, I knew there was something more."

As he finished his tale, he turned to look at Anna. Her eyes glistened as she met his gaze, and they smiled at one another knowingly, in that secret way that means there is much more story to tell.

….

The third time, following one of the most difficult hours of my life. Going in to I.D. her body. Knowing that my towering redwood, my flowing river, my glorious Scully may have been reduced to a dead, lifeless mass on a metal slab was almost too much for me to bear. Outwardly, I kept it together, but inside, I was in chaos, throbbing and pulsing with terror that this may actually be IT.

I was numb as I looked through those blinds, the death seeping through the glass sliver by sliver until finally I knew. It wasn't her, but somehow I had known that, hadn't I? Somehow I knew that if she had really been dead, I would have felt it, would have endured it, lived it. But it didn't matter anyway, because she wasn't.

When I finally found her, she was huddled at her mother's, and she struck me with her words, her beliefs that I was against her. Even though I knew her brain had been corrupted, it hurt that she believed that. It wounded me that I didn't have her trust.

But as I followed her eyes, and saw them turn wet, my reflection becoming clearer as they filled with tears, I realized how much it must have been hurting her. Never mind my own pain at her delusions- /I/ at least understood they were false. But Scully, poor Scully, she actually believed. To think that I had turned against her, that all those years, I had duped her, must have been sheer torture.

And as she sunk to the floor in her mother's arms, her sobs filling the room, I felt that pain. As she cried, the sounds tore at my soul. The sense of betrayal I could feel within her was so encompassing, I could barely stand it.

And at that moment, I swore to myself that never again would she shed tears over me, over some way I had hurt her or betrayed her. Never.

….

Anna continued the story as Theodore's words faded away, swallowed by the sterility of the hospital room, and perhaps swallowed as well by the smile that was left on his peaceful face.

Like Theodore, she had lived a full life, growing up in West Virginia, marrying young, and raising three lovely children. Her health had always been satisfactory, save for some mild arthritis, but as I'd expected, she, too, told me of a mysterious, periodic aching heart.

"It would feel as though there were butterflies in my chest," she began, fluttering her fingers against her breast to illustrate, "At first, it wasn't unpleasant- it even kind of tickled! But soon the flutters would begin to expand, until they became stronger and stronger, more like vibrations."

"Do you remember those old roller skates that required a key to tighten?" she asked me.

"Yes, yes I do," I smiled at the memory, remembering Missy and myself, roller skating in our driveway when we were young.

She chuckled in return, "Well, do you remember when you would skate on the pavement in front of your house, and the vibrations would become so strong, you thought your teeth would chatter right out of your head?"

I laughed, knowing exactly the sensation she was describing.

"That is exactly what I would feel, except that it was centered right here in my heart," she grasped at her floral nightgown over her heart. "After a while, it just became a numb, aching pain that would last and last. If I was at home, I would rest in my bed, and wait for it to subside. But quite often, it would happen while I was out of town, and so I was forced to just endure the discomfort."

I asked her what the doctors had said.

"Oh dear!" she exclaimed, "The doctors didn't believe a word I said! They told me I should drink a few drops of whiskey to clear things up!"

The three of us laughed at the absurdity, until once again a serious mood blanketed the room.

Her eyes drifted across to meet with Theodore's, and he smiled so endearingly at her that it took my breath away. Because I've seen that smile before. I recognized it. I've seen that smile on Mulder's face, countless times, directed at me. I blushed at the thought, and turned back towards Anna.

Her wrinkled fingers gripped Theodore's more tightly, and she quietly continued, "But just like Theodore, I knew. I knew that my heart was speaking to me, was whispering to me, telling me secrets that I just wasn't yet meant to understand…"

…..

The fourth time, another hospital. Disinfected rooms and cold, white hallways are obviously breeding grounds for tears- why do we keep subjecting ourselves to them? How would our lives be different if we never spent another moment in a sterile, bleak hospital room?

I expected them this time, her tears. And I thought because of that, they wouldn't affect me as much. That their potency would somehow be diminished simply because they were anticipated. But I was wrong.

She stood in front of me, her face crumbling as she confirmed Penny Northern's death. Though her eyes barely shed a tear, gallons of them were present in her voice, her usually harmonic alto wavering and shuddering and breaking my heart.

I donned my "concerned friend" mask to hide the maelstrom of emotion churning behind my eyes. Fighting back my own tears, I was terrified at what the future may hold for the two of us. My arms ached to wrap around her, to take away her pain, to take away /our/ pain, brought on by the greatest monster we have ever fought. A monster that was eating away at her insides, weakening her body, ravaging her soul.

I was a bumbling, inadequate giant standing over her, desperate to save her, yet unsure how.

She was so small, so frail, dwarfed by the white hospital robe she wore, but as she spoke I realized that looks were deceiving. Even through her tears, she was so absolutely strong and determined, so absolutely beautiful. My majestic mountain, my Scully. She told me that she wanted to work, that she had something to prove, and my heart thudded with joy.

And as she smiled up at me, I couldn't stop my cheeks from grinning, couldn't stop my arms from enveloping her, couldn't stop my chin from laying atop her sweet head. I felt her wet cheek against my heart, and breathed in deeply as I absorbed her tears.

Too soon, we began to separate. My lips found her forehead and lingered there, trying to savor our connection before she pulled away completely. I stroked her cheeks, wiping away the last of her tears, and her eyes held mine captive. A silent understanding flowed between us, and then she was gone, shuffling back down that lonely, white corridor.

God, how I loved her, even then.

…

While Anna and Theodore had their lunch, I snuck out to grab a coffee. But their story clung to me, and I was anxious to get back and hear more. Something about the two of them spoke so deeply to me. I had not even heard the entirety of their tale, yet I felt as though I had been destined to meet them. I wish Mulder could have been there with me, listening to them speak, for I know he would have felt it, too.

But no, he had deemed this case too "touchy-feely" and had asked me to handle it, while he went off in search of the "West Virginia Werewolf" or some other such nonsense. Which is too bad, because he was missing a beautiful thing. There was such a delicate energy emitted by these two souls, I longed for him to see it, longed to experience it with him.

But I long for a lot these days, it seems. Fulfillment, contentment, the sense that all of this has some sort of meaning. Most of the time, it's easy. Our hectic schedule makes it simple to ignore what's missing. But other times, like now, when my heart is exposed and listening, these times it's more difficult. More difficult to deny the longing.

More difficult to pretend that I'm satisfied with my life, to pretend that I'm not just a fragment of what I could be. I long for a way to fill the holes that polka-dot my existence. Some just a pinprick, barely noticeable, but some…, some gaping and open and painful. I rarely admit to myself that they exist, but somehow this case has brought them glaringly into focus for me.

In the past, I've attempted to repair the holes, hasty patchwork efforts. I've filled them with various things- shopping excursions with my mother, trips to the museum, articles written for journals… but those were quick fixes, soon worn through.

This time though, I don't know if just a light spackling is going to be enough. This time, I fear I may need a whole construction crew…

…

I remember the fifth time so clearly, I can still feel it, that single tear as it slid down her alabaster cheek. Right after she told me she had transferred to Utah. Right after my eyes became so blind, I could see nothing but her, nothing but her legs walking out my door, her shoulders held straight with pride as she shrunk smaller and smaller, further and further away from me until she had almost disappeared from my life.

My legs, they carried me to her, thank God. My mind had not yet processed the shock that she was about to be gone. GONE.

I was desperate, desperate for her to stay, desperate for her to change her mind, desperate for her to know /my/ mind. How I longed for her, needed her, loved her.

Desperate for /her/.

Somehow, I managed to tell her, enough to stop her from leaving, to draw her against my chest, to pull her into my arms. And it felt so good to have her there with me, /staying/.

I felt her breath, hot exhalations against my shoulder, while her wet tears soaked through my shirt, soothing my hurt. Then when her soft lips found my brow and her hand embraced my neck, I was soothed in an entirely different way.

In a motion as familiar as writing my own name, our foreheads met and mated. I cherish contact like this with her. Unlike our bodies, our foreheads have become our secret-keepers, caressing and coupling and never telling a soul.

I listened to her breaths, harsh and quiet and lovely, but still carrying an undercurrent of sadness. And suddenly I couldn't stop. I reached for her jaw, soft and chiseled, my thumbs smoothing the skin as my eyes searched hers through their wetness. The moment stretched like taffy, long and sticky and sweet. A lone, salty tear escaped and rolled down her cheek, calling to me, making me thirst for her that much more. I wished I could take that tear from her, lick it with my tongue and hold it in my belly, absorb it into my system until it became a part of me forever.

I reached for her, moving through quicksand toward her softened lips with my own. For one feathered second, a whisper of contact, and then she was gone.

….

We settled back into our assigned positions as the story resumed. Anna and Theodore seemed as anxious to continue as I was. I realized that perhaps their need to tell it was just as strong as my need to hear it.

"Why don't you tell me how the two of you met?" I prompted, eager to find out what was behind this strange connection I felt between them. For a brief second, Mulder's and my first meeting flashed through my mind, that sizzle of energy that had pulsed through my fingers as he first shook my hand so many years ago…

"Yes, yes, we'll get to that," Theodore rasped. "But first we need to lead up to it. You see, Anna and I did not meet for many, many years. We had children to raise, families to nurture, lives to live."

For a moment, I was surprised. I'm not sure why I had assumed they'd known each other longer. There was just such a connection, a synergy between them, something that should have taken decades to cultivate.

Anna smiled at me, "Yes, dear, we both lived long, full lives before we were blessed enough to find each other." Her eyes drifted back across to Theodore, and I envied the look they shared, such love, such happiness.

"Please, tell me more," I whispered, surprised to hear the slight catch in my voice. But I was feeling desperate to understand the whole story, to understand why it was holding me with such a tight grip.

Theodore continued, "As Anna has told you, we both lived full lives before we met. Our children grew up and had children of their own, we grew old, and our spouses grew old along with us. We were fairly happy, fairly content, but still… still we both struggled to understand our aching hearts."

"Sadly," Anna proceeded, as her gnarled fingers squeezed Theodore's, "Our spouses both passed a few years ago. Elizabeth suffered a stroke, while my husband, John, died of lung cancer."

"Yes," Theodore's voice shook slightly with his words, "God rest their souls… It was a sad time for both of us. But life carried on, as it always does."

They paused for a few moments, caught briefly in the memories of those hard times. "I'm so sorry," I murmured.

"Thank you, dear," Anna smiled, "But enough of this sad talk, let's get back to the story of how we met."

"Yes, please…" I responded, looking forward to finally fitting the pieces together.

Anna began. "As Theodore said, we continued to suffer with our aching hearts over the years. And after our spouses passed away, the ache grew, for both of us. It wasn't present all the time, but when it emerged, it was stronger than it had ever been." Her hand once again grasped at her heart to illustrate.

"And then one day…," she continued, her eyes finding Theodore's, "…one day I was visiting relatives in Maryland, and oh my goodness, it hit me so sharply, I almost collapsed. I was in the park, watching my grandchildren play on the swings. My heart had been bothering me for a few days, but I was so used to it by then, I didn't think much of it. But suddenly…, suddenly it clenched so hard I momentarily feared I was dying."

Her eyes closed and her hand fluttered across her chest as she replayed the day in her head. Theodore's face mirrored her emotions, so much that I knew without a doubt he was experiencing them right along with her.

"I sat still, my focus only on the pain I was enduring, my relatives frantically calling to me, asking me what was wrong… And then…," she opened her eyes and looked at Theodore, and I watched, amazed, as I saw a current pass between them, warm and glowing and yet not really even there, "…and then, I opened my eyes and I saw him."

Their wrinkled fingers clutched at one another's, and their time-worn voices whispered in perfect unison, "And immediately the pain was gone."

….

Oh God, the sixth time. The sixth time was so intense, it transformed me right down to my core. The walls of my apartment will forever be altered, having swallowed the sounds of her desperate sobs. Sobs that haunt me nightly now, lying on my couch, inches away from where it happened.

Padgett. He knew her so well, knew her heart, knew her soul… I can barely remember her birthday some years, yet he was able to crawl inside, explore, penetrate her mind, understand her desires. How? How could he know her like that, when I've struggled for years trying to unravel her?

I will never forget the panic that gripped at my throat when I heard gunshots while down in the furnace room. The realization that Scully was up there with him, with someone; I couldn't breathe as I scrambled my way to her.

Then walking in, seeing her. My God, there was so much blood, seeping, spreading, fanning out like wings from her delicate ribs. My Scully, my angel, now with crimson wings as proof of her divinity.

Stagnant with disbelief, my body moved in slow motion, hovering above her for seconds, minutes, hours; time had no meaning when I was so close to confirming my worst nightmare. The blood glistened at her throat, wet and fresh and not at all what I'd imagined tasting the many times I'd considered my tongue there.

I perhaps would still be there, kneeling over her bleeding body, afraid to touch, if she had not suddenly wrenched back to life beneath me. God, I have never heard a more wondrous sound than her terrified gasp that day. And I have never felt a more wondrous sensation than her arms wrapped around me, /alive/.

I held her to me as her fingers clawed at my shoulders, and as her cries began, wet and intimate against my ear, I had never wanted to engulf her more than at that moment. I pulled her closer and tried desperately to consume her, to suck her tears inside my body and erase every terrible thing that had ever happened to her.

But of course that wasn't possible, so I settled for holding her and rocking her and shushing her, soothing my cheek against her slippery hair, trying to absorb as many of her sobs as I could until all that was left were her harsh breaths, warm against my neck.

When I hear the echoes of her cries now at night, that's what I try to remember, her soft breath warming my neck and her arms as she held me close.

It helps sometimes.

….

"Gone?" I asked in disbelief.

"Absolutely, completely gone," Anna whispered, eyes still holding Theodore's. "The second my eyes met his, my heart was set free."

"I knew then…," continued Theodore, his voice faltering slightly, "…I knew what my heart had been aching for, /who/ my heart had been aching for, all those years."

Their smiles were full of tenderness and secrets shared. I suddenly felt almost as though I were intruding into some private conversation between the two of them, carried on solely by their eyes. I looked away and thought of Mulder and myself, how his eyes speak so clearly to me, how I can read volumes in just the slightest quirk of his lip, and suddenly I wished so badly that he were here with me, listening to this story, sharing it with me...

"I rose from the bench, and met him halfway," Anna interrupted my introspection, "and we just stood there, our eyes locked upon one another's, our hands over our hearts. And we /knew/, without even speaking, we knew…"

They paused, and I watched as he winked at her, causing her cheeks to pinken and her eyes to drop.

"That's beautiful," I whispered, tears prickling in the corners of my eyes.

He smiled, continuing, "From that moment on, we have not left each other's side. The thought of being away from her is unbearable," his voice broke slightly at the statement. "Sometimes, by necessity, we need to separate briefly, but even then…, even then, the pain begins to return, and it stays until we are once again reunited."

"In reminiscing," Anna added, "we realized that all those years, our hearts had been hurting when we were near each other. I had relatives in Maryland, and whenever I'd visit them, the ache would begin, because Theodore was so close. And he used to travel to West Virginia for business, and the same would happen then. We were so close to each other, yet we never knew it."

"But that's all in the past now, love," he murmured across their beds.

She smiled back, "Although we only found each other a few short years ago, we have lived a lifetime of happiness during that time. We finally feel complete, we've made each other whole…"

My breath catches as I remember Mulder's desperate words to me that day, "You saved me. You made me a whole person." And I feel an ache in my own heart for a moment, reliving the euphoria that statement had given me when it had slipped from his lips so long ago.

"And why…," I gestured to the hospital beds, their metal appendages and buzzing monitors creating a barrier between the two lovers, "…why this? Why are you now here in the hospital?"

Their shaking fingers fluttered against one another's as Theodore spoke, "Well, you see, it seems now that our aching hearts are finally failing us. Last week, both at the same moment, we felt our hearts hitch in our chests, and we knew it was time. When we saw the doctor, he confirmed that we both are suffering the same fate. Both of us are dying."

My eyes drifted over to their two heart monitors, to which, until that point, I hadn't paid much attention. The steady beep beep beep had served as background music throughout our conversation, but as I listened, I realized that I could only hear one series of beeps, only one heartbeat being broadcast. In actuality, that wasn't possible; obviously both hearts were beating, but they were beating in such unison, in absolute tandem, that the sounds merged completely, creating one, single, beautiful rhythm. That hadn't broken once during our visit.

Being a doctor, I know how impossible this is. Heartbeats are innately irregular; even in the span of a few minutes, one person's heartbeat does not remain completely constant. And for two hearts, especially two that are in the process of failing, to maintain that connection over a period of several hours, well, it is unheard of.

Yet as I looked upon the two of them, withered fingers joined and tired eyes linked, I believed it, I believed it all.

…

The seventh time, just weeks ago, strapped down on that cold, sterile table, her face hovering over me like morning fog above a warm summer pond. My mind so jumbled, I couldn't tell what was dream and what was reality, only that I heard her voice rising above it all. Her voice saying my name. How I love to hear Scully say my name, her soft lips forming the "m" and the rest sliding out like caramel. And the sweetness of that sound burrowed into my brain, pulling at me, knowing I'd follow it anywhere.

I tried calling to her, but my mouth was full of dust, dry and brittle. My eyes found her briefly before sinking me back to my dreamworld. But still…, still I heard her whispering my name, and I felt her there, felt her warmth- my radiating sun, my Scully. And I tried my hardest to turn toward that glow, to soak up her essence and come back to life.

Then I felt it, like a punctuation mark completing a sad story, one single teardrop splashed across my brow. Scully's teardrop. And suddenly I wanted nothing more than to find her, to know she was real and she was mine. To know that Diana and the life playing in my head were nothing but a twisted, surreal fantasy.

Her tear trickled over my skin, slow-motion, delving into pores and spiraling within me, gripping my heart and shaking it, calling me back to her and to reality. My eyes cracked open again and were greeted this time by the burning flames of her hair. Having absorbed her tear, my cheek now tingled as her own downy cheek came to rest against it.

Broken and splintered, my voice drew her attention, and the joy and wonder I saw in her face upon my awakening was enough to fill my empty places for weeks, months. She bent once more to me, and as our cheeks nuzzled and our arms circled, I felt the rest of her tears escape, slipping against my skin briefly, before necessity required us to entangle ourselves and escape.

My God, how can I ever begin to repay her for all that she's done for me? For all that she's gone through for me? I fear my debt is already so deep, I'll never be able to climb my way out, never feel worthy enough for her…

…

Their story now complete, I watch as the two of them gaze across the divide at one another, such adoration filling their faces. Again I can't help but think of Mulder. I'm positive I see that same look in his eyes sometimes, that look that tells me I'm his whole universe, I'm the sun around which he revolves. And on days when my guard is down, I'm certain he sees the same look in mine, though I usually do my best to keep it hidden.

And much as I try to tell myself that the work is more important, that personal feelings will only complicate things, I ache, so silently, for things to be different.

Is it any wonder that this case is toying with me, taunting me? That meeting Anna and Theodore has left me feeling empty, incomplete?

Why? Why can't I be satisfied with things the way they are, be happy with my life right now? Mulder and I have had a successful working relationship for seven years- to disturb that would be foolish. I have a thriving career, a wonderful family, good health now that the cancer is gone… I'm a very fortunate person. Why can't that be enough for me?

But those holes, they just keep appearing, sinking deeper, deeper, some so deep they touch places within me that I've been afraid of exploring for years. Places that leave me feeling so alone, my chest seizes with angst before I'm able to stop it, before I'm able to cover it over, before I'm able hide it from myself.

And I fear that hiding from it may not be an option anymore. Anna and Theodore have changed me. Whether for better or for worse is still undetermined. But they've exposed a /want/ that has been lying dormant within me, a /want/ that is strong and yearning and hungry to be filled. One that I fear will not bear to be hidden away or ignored.

And that scares the hell out of me.

…

The last time I saw her cry was beneath my doorway. My apartment and its surroundings are littered with reminders of her tears- wet, aching reminders every time I come, every time I go. You'd think that I'd try to stay away, but I'm a glutton for punishment- reliving Scully's pain somehow makes me feel closer to her, more connected.

She met me that day just as I was leaving to go to her. Sometimes the thread that runs between us is so in tune, it's scary. We discussed Albert Holstein, and her voice crumbled with emotion as she admitted her confusion, admitted her desperation. I'm so used to Scully being /sure/ of everything, it always takes me a bit by surprise when she's not. And when I heard her voice faltering, her strong, melodic Scully voice falling apart and slipping through the cracks, it took my entire strength not to pull her against me to ease her pain.

But I resisted, sensing she had more to say. Her eyes welled and her face collapsed further as she told me of Diana's death. While I mourned for Diana, somehow Scully's anguish over it affected me even more. Her wet eyes, her choked words, her sweet arms as they wrapped around my neck to comfort me- it was suddenly too much. I had to let her know what she was to me, what she is to me, my touchstone, my mountain, my never-changing constant.

My palms cradled her jaw as the words fell from my lips. And her misty eyes as she looked up at me- as she grasped my wrist and told me she felt the same- her eyes were absolutely everything. They spoke to me all the words that her voice could not, words she's afraid to say, words she's afraid to believe. Words hidden within both of us, hidden beneath layers and layers of fear and doubt and insecurity.

Her lips found my forehead and lingered, longer than she's ever dared. Then time slowed to a crawl as I felt her palms against my cheeks, sliding, sliding until she'd reached my mouth. And before I had a chance to prepare myself, her thumbs were trailing snail-like across my lips. Scully's hands are so soft, so tender, I savor each time she touches me. But this was a touch so completely unanticipated, I found myself hypnotized. Every ridge and swirl of her thumbprint vibrated against my suddenly over-sensitized mouth as she made the first move in her own version of Truth or Dare. But before I had a chance to take my turn in the game, she was gone.

My God. If I thought that I longed for her before, I was mistaken. What I felt for her before was merely a grain of sand compared to the desert of longing that exists inside me now.

...

As I sit here, silently taking stock of my existence, I don't immediately notice the slight shift in rhythm. My thoughts occupy so much space that there's barely room for anything else. But gradually, it becomes clear- something has changed. The steady beep beep beep of the heart monitors, the beat around which our entire day has revolved, has slowed. And now instead has become a drawling beeeep beeeep beeeep.

Jumping from my seat, I race over to Anna and Theodore, intent on checking their vitals. But as I approach the beds, Theodore's hand weakly raises, signaling me to stop.

"Please…," he whispers, so quietly I can barely hear.

"…don't," whispers Anna, finishing his thought.

Their hands, still linked, tremble in the air between the beds. As I look at their eyes, watery and worn, I can tell they see nothing but each other, despite a room full of tubes and wires and monitors and me.

And while I want to respect their wishes, to not intervene, I also feel as though I should alert the nurses. I had asked not to be bothered during our interviews, and knowing I am a doctor, the staff had reluctantly agreed.

But as my brain furiously tells my feet to move, my eyes cannot look away. I am rooted like a tree, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to stop myself from seeing. I am mesmerized by what is happening in front of me.

The air in the room has become suddenly charged, as if an electrical storm were waiting, prickly and humming. The monitors have retreated to only an intermittent heartbeat every several seconds. And Anna and Theodore- I don't know how to best describe it- but Anna and Theodore are somehow glowing. I can't actually see a physical glow, but I can feel…, I can sense… I don't understand, but God, I am somehow /experiencing/ this energy between them.

They are smiling so tenderly at each other. Even through yellowed dentures and pale, cracked lips, they are the most beautiful smiles I've ever seen, and I feel absolutely blessed to be in the midst of such a scene.

Their heartbeats are getting weaker, but are still completely in sync, and tears are streaming down my cheeks as I watch them, loving and loving and loving each other as long as they can. My God, the love in this room is overflowing. I can feel it, soft and feathery against my fingers, my face, in my heart. I grip my hands into fists, trying to grab hold of it, needing something solid I can take away from this place today.

But I can't hold onto it.

That's the thing. Love's not solid. It's not concrete. It's not a thing that can be measured or studied or planned on a to-do list. And I don't know what to do with something like that; I don't know how to fit that into my tangible, concrete life.

After a few minutes, the monitors release a final beep, then shudder quiet. I hold my breath, only releasing it when I hear the tell-tale steady beeeeeeeeeeep that signals the end.

Slowly, I walk over and switch off the machines, filling the room with silence, save for my own breaths warming the air. And just as I hear the door burst open, doctors and nurses rushing in, I look down between the beds to find that their hands are still clasped.

I place my own hand atop theirs and squeeze, thanking them silently for allowing me to witness their story. But as I walk out of the room, I am in a daze, silent panicking over the questions this case has arisen within my own life, within my own heart.

There is no more to be done here, so I head back to the hotel, wanting nothing more than to climb into my bed and go to sleep.

My big, empty, king-sized hotel bed.

My own heart aches at the thought.

…

There were other times throughout the years, too. Times her face would falter, her voice would break, her eyes would fill, but she held on, never letting a tear fall. Melissa, Emily, Cancer, so many other pains, too numerous to even list. I ache at the thought that she must have cried alone during those times, that her sobs were expelled into emptiness, instead of against my chest.

I don't know how she does it, how she keeps from breaking. How she holds it all inside, allowing life to eat away at her. The things that have happened to her are too much for one woman to bear alone. My arms are strong; I could carry her burden with her, if she'd allow it. I yearn for her to let me see that vulnerability, to let me comfort her and connect with her and love her.

Though I've only witnessed them a handful of times, I have mentally collected each and every one of her tears. I store them in a beautiful brass urn in my mind, emblazoned with an elaborately scripted "S" for "Scully". That urn is precious to me. Precious because those tears represent her trust in me. They represent her heart, her loving, compassionate, and sometimes hurting, heart.

My own twisted logic tells me that saving her tears keeps her from more pain, keeps her safe, keeps her close. And each time one is added, that delicate thread that binds us together grows stronger, weaving in and out, wrapping around and around, until one day, we will be encased in our own silken cocoon, so strong that nothing can penetrate it ever again.

I wait in anxious anticipation of that day.

….

I return to the hotel and peek my head through Mulder's and my connecting door, but am surprised to find that he is not there. It's already 9:00- I assumed his hunt for the werewolf would've fizzled long ago, and thought I'd find him sprawled on his bed in front of the TV.

For a moment, I'm disappointed. After such an emotional day, I had been looking forward to the distraction and comfort of Mulder and his werewolf stories, hoping to give my mind another place to rest for a while. But perhaps it's best for me to be alone tonight. Anna and Theodore are still lingering on my skin, reluctant to let me go, and I'm beginning to think that I'm a little too raw for human interaction right now anyway.

Especially with Mulder.

Mulder has a knack for making me feel exposed even on my best day. There's no telling how he would affect me tonight, when my heart is laid open and vulnerable, needy for connection. Yes, it's definitely best for me to be alone right now, I decide, though I can't deny that part of me that is still listening for him, hoping to hear the car door slam and him burst through the door saying, "Scully, you'll never believe what I saw…!"

As I turn back to my own room, I notice a flashing light on the hotel phone. I pick it up and listen for the awaiting message, not surprised when I hear Mulder's voice carry across the line, "Scully, it's me. I tried you on your cell, but you must have turned it off. Hope your day with the lovebirds went well. Hey, I met a guy who says he knows where to find the West Virginia Werewolf at night, so I think I'm gonna tag along- see if I can get a peek. Don't worry- I won't get killed or anything… at least, I hope not- ha ha! Okay, see ya in the morning…"

Well, it appears I'll be spending the evening by myself regardless, whether by my own decision or not.

But what else is new? I've spent almost every night of the last seven years alone.

Even those nights when we've been physically in the same place, I really was still alone, wasn't I? In fact, on those nights- cramped together in a tension-filled car on a stakeout, shivering in a damp forest while being hunted by mothmen- on nights like those, I sometimes feel more alone than I would without him there at all.

How is it that being alone together is often even lonelier than being alone by yourself?

I think about Anna and Theodore, how their hearts ached the strongest when they were near each other, but had not yet met. And I recognize the similarities. When Mulder and I are physically close- when he's whispering against my ear or hovering in my space, when he's guiding me through a doorway, the warm weight of his hand at my back- when he's /near/, those are often the times I feel loneliest.

Those are the times the chinks in my armor crack open, the holes I am trying to fill grow larger. In those moments, my heart aches the most, for it knows that we are so close, yet we are also so, so far.

I ready myself for bed, trying to move quickly, hoping to outrun the sadness, the emptiness that is nipping at my heels, fighting to consume me. I can't even put my finger on what's wrong, other than admitting Anna and Theodore have touched some kind of nerve within me, opened some kind of wound I hadn't even realized existed until now.

Or perhaps I did know the wound was there, but thought I had covered it with enough bandages to keep it hidden, even from myself.

But of course that's foolish. Wounds don't disappear unless cared for properly. I know that. I'm a doctor. No, instead, without care, they fester; they become infected. They hurt and they bleed, sometimes so much that you feel as if all the blood in your body has poured out upon the floor, and your heart is left struggling, aching for something, some way, some/one/ to bring it back to life.

….

Thinking about Scully's tears has put me into a somber mood. I hadn't intended on spending the last hour going over her heartaches, reliving her pain. But sitting out here, in the cab of a run-down Dodge pickup truck, listening for the West Virginia werewolf, while my companion gets himself increasingly drunker on bourbon guzzled from a well-worn flask, well, all of the sudden, things are beginning to feel a bit trivial. My /life/ is beginning to feel a bit trivial.

What am I doing out here? Am I really spending the night chasing some monster, some werewolf that is starting to look more and more like an easy excuse to escape the wife for a night? Is this who I am? Who I've become? Is this what Scully sees when she looks at me? A delusional man sitting in a pickup truck, hoping to catch a glimpse of something, anything, just so he can continue living this charade he's built, just so he can feel relevant?

Relevant to what? To whom?

Relevant to her.

I can't explain it, but she's just been so present in my mind tonight. So present in my heart.

I'd come out here with every intention of some good old-fashioned monster hunting, yet, even amidst the ramblings of my evening companion, she's been here, fully, at the front of my thoughts, pushing everything else aside in order to just be.

Scully is always present in my life, whether she's physically with me or not. Her face, I just need to close my eyes and it's there; her voice, I hear it like music, playing wherever I go; her smell, it blooms before my nose each time I walk outside; and her touch, God, I feel her touch with every whisper of a breeze, every ray of sun, every drop of rain.

But tonight, there's something more.

Tonight, she's here with me. Her essence, the fibers of her being, her soul, it's all here, swimming in the air that I'm breathing, weaving itself within and throughout, taking my heart and gripping, squeezing, so much that I feel a dull ache every time it beats.

I left her today, left her with a case that I couldn't be bothered with. A couple of elderly lovebirds with some kind of heart problem. It sounded so boring to me, and at the first mention of something slightly freakish, I was outta there, asking her to take over, to cover for me while I went off on an extremely official monster hunt.

Only now, I realize. Something more was going on there, something more was happening, and I didn't stick around to find out what that was. But Scully did. And it affected her somehow. It changed her somehow. I don't know how I know that, but I do.

It's why I've found myself remembering things tonight, reliving things, taking stock of her pain, her tears.

She's here, and I can feel that pain. All her tears, gathered over so many years, they're here now, weighing on me, pressing against me, pushing me to go. Go to her, they're saying, she needs you, she wants you.

She's crying for you.

She's aching for you.

….

Lying in bed, I try to empty my mind, clear the day from my thoughts, in order to get some rest. But it doesn't work. There's such a flurry of images flickering there, emotions, feelings, sensations. Anna, Theodore, Mulder… I can't escape the sadness that has been chasing me all evening, and it settles over me like the hotel blanket, heavy, dusty, and gray.

Why am I feeling this way? So lost, so desperate? Anna and Theodore were a beautiful example of true love, undeniable soulmates. Their story was a happy one. Nothing about it should have made me feel this way. Why are they affecting me so much?

But I know the answer, of course. As much as I've tried to hide from it, I know. Anna and Theodore have brought things to my attention, things I've been denying for far too long. Longings and yearnings and cravings, all buried deep, pushed to the very bottom of my life's to-do list. But now here they are, right in front of my face, and I'm too tired to hide from them any longer.

As I lie here, I can feel my heart beating, and though I must be imagining it, I can almost feel it aching, vibrating, just as Anna had described. I place my hand upon it and lie still, feeling the individual beats, allowing the sensations to come. I think of life and soulmates and hearts, two beating as one. Like minds sharing thoughts, eyes communicating without words, platonic touches representing much, much more.

I think of Mulder. His mind, complex and amazing and seductive, as he whispers against my ear theories of which only he could conceive. His eyes, dark and mysterious and searching, holding mine captive as we connect so completely, never speaking a word. His touch, soft and warm and tempting, stroking my skin and igniting fires within me, stoked by only the slightest brush of a finger, yet strong enough to last for days.

His lips, full, plump, reaching for mine as I tremble in anticipation. So near. Near enough to feel his warm breaths, huffing against my parted lips…

And then suddenly, my hand is so close, I simply can't keep it from drifting. It slides so slowly, so easily, across my skin beneath my silk pajama top, slides from my heart until it is cupping my breast, gently gripping the soft flesh. And I moan. Oh God, what am I doing? But I keep going. I allow my finger to circle my nipple, once, twice, then brush across it and squeeze. My neck arches at the sensation, and I moan again.

And before I know it, I'm sitting up, unbuttoning my top, tossing it aside so that I can feel my hands more fully. I shouldn't be doing this, I tell myself, I'm on a case, in some random hotel room….but God, something tonight is pulling me, seducing me. I think again of Mulder, imagine he's here with me, touching my body for the first time, opening my soul, easing the pain that's arisen so completely in the last few hours.

Imagine that these are his hands, pulling away my top, caressing my skin, working me into a frenzy. Imagine his voice whispering my name, Scully Scully Scully… Oh God, I can't help but gasp at the thought. My eyes close as I lay back, my fingers stroking across my bare skin, tickling up my ribs until I reach the sides of my aching breasts, then slipping around to hold them. Imagine him lifting them, testing their weight, sliding around to tease my nipples…

I'm getting caught up in my fantasy, whimpering as I pinch and tug, making do with my own practiced digits but wanting him here instead. My fingers trail so lightly, so delicately, reading my nipples like a blind man reads braille, drawing them into hard, sensitive peaks. On each pass, my breath catches, and I find myself gasping his name.

The hand I imagine to be his whispers along my skin, stroking a path along the dip between my ribs, lower, meandering along my abdomen, strolling around my navel, then lower still, finally snaking under my pajama bottoms and through the brush of hair between my legs.

I pull off the pants, then tease myself for a moment, tickling along the insides of my thighs as my legs fall gently apart, tracing the creases right there along their tops, slipping back up to thread through my curls, petting and caressing, yet never touching the place I desire it the most. Somehow knowing that he'd do the same, tease me and taunt me and make me beg for his touch.

I cup my sex, imagining him touching me there, so reverently. I know that he would worship me, adore me, heal me. My breath quickens as I think about it, and I can't wait any longer. I slide my middle finger down between my folds, pressing gently, moving against my clit with my knuckle, not stopping until I'm embedded deep inside.

"Jesus!" I gasp at the sensation, and buck up against my hand, up against his hips, up against his cock.

I press against my clit with the heel of my palm as my finger thrusts in and out, in and out, while my other hand stays busy fondling my breasts, pinching and flicking at my nipples.

"Ohhhh Goddddd," I groan, getting caught up in the sensations, trying to imagine him above me, hovering, looking in my eyes as he moves, stroking, stroking, stroking.

"God, Mulder…, please…," I whisper, tossing my head in desperation, wanting his hands on my skin so badly.

I increase my rhythm, wanting him to lose control, wanting him to pound into me, to fuck me. To love me.

"Please…please…please," tears come to my eyes as I beg him, and I can feel that familiar ache in my heart resurfacing. God, Mulder, please… fuck me, fuck me, take it away… Please, touch me, take away my emptiness, take away my hurt.

And even though I fight them, the tears continue, rolling down my cheeks, stinging my eyes. Roughly, quickly, I shove my finger back inside, scraping along my clit as I do, trying to push away the tears, push away the pain.

But I need more. More. I need it hard, I need it rough, I need it harsh and crude and ragged. I need it to be something that makes me forget, something that makes me forget all of those things that I really need.

A second finger joins the first, and then a third, and I fuck myself hard while my other hand clenches at my breasts, twisting them, abusing them. But it's still not working; it's not enough. Why can't it be enough? Why can't any of it be enough?

I leave my breast and reach for my clit, all the while my other hand is pumping, pumping, pumping, trying to find release. I finger my clit hard, rough. My hips rise to meet him, heaving, searching for his touch.

"Please, Mulder, please…," I beg, "Please…" I'm frantic now, pumping, grinding, wanting, wanting, wanting…

"…please…," I'm crying now. I'm sobbing. I can't help it.

Nothing, nothing, nothing can fill these holes. Nothing can fill me, nothing can make me complete, nothing can release me from this pain.

I roll to my side, sliding my sticky fingers out and curling myself into the bedding. And I sob. Wet, desperate sobs that rise from deep within. They fill the room as I clench my fists in the sheets, clawing at the bed, trying to dig a hole large enough to fit around my body, to surround me and hold me so tightly that I won't fall apart.

So that I /can't/ fall apart.

So that I won't dissolve into a million tiny pieces...

….

Suddenly, I can't stand to sit out here any longer. My companion is spewing nonsense about the werewolf, which grows larger and more dangerous with every gulp from his flask. I'm trying to listen, but Scully is still here, in the air, wrapped around me, calling to me.

I feel an urgency all of the sudden, a yearning tight in my chest to see her. To connect with her. To cross that bridge that has collapsed with every other attempt I've ever made.

But tonight, that bridge feels strong and stable. It's wet with tears, but I have handrails and a good grip. Tonight, I can make it. I can meet her on the other side.

Not bothering to ask my werewolf guide's permission, I grab the keys from the dash and jam them into the ignition. Heading back to the hotel, he protests weakly, but his state of mind is somewhat compromised, and he forgets mid-sentence what he's complaining about. I drive roughly back to the hotel, and when we arrive, ask the manager to find a room for him, knowing he'd rather sleep it off here than at home with his wife.

As I walk back across the parking lot, gravel crunching beneath my boots, my eyes train on her window. Larger and larger it grows, heavier and heavier the weight of her on my heart. It's 10:30; no light shines through her curtains. She's probably already asleep.

But I don't mind. Just having her close will be enough to satisfy me. Maybe peek my head through our connecting door and watch her sleep for a few minutes. Or a few hours. Who am I kidding? If she knew how often I kneel by her bed, my eyes caressing her face, her hair, her body, well…, let's just say I'm glad she doesn't know.

My key glides easily into the lock, and I silently turn the handle, slipping into my room with no more sound than a shadow. If she is indeed asleep, I don't want to wake her. As I enter, I notice our connecting door is ajar, so I leave the lights off until I can close it.

I gingerly make my way over, when I am stopped midway by a sound. A sigh.

And then another sigh.

And then a gasp.

And then I go immediately rigid, because there is no denying what I am hearing. At the next gasp, my knees buckle right underneath me, and I drop down to the floor, my hand reaching around to clench myself through my jeans before I even touch the ground.

Holy shit. Holy mother-fucking shit. Scully. Scully is masturbating in the next room. She thinks I am out on a werewolf hunt, and she's masturbating. Scully has got her hands on herself, stroking, teasing, caressing. Ohhhhh Goddddd. I feel like I'm going to pass out, I'm so turned on. I squeeze my cock involuntarily, and try to listen. God, I can hear her moving, shifting, moaning.

Fuck! What am I doing? There's no way that this is acceptable. I contemplate leaving. But then I hear another gasp, and then her voice, oh God, her voice. The voice that I hear nightly in my dreams, the voice that can simultaneously soothe me and make me rock hard, all at once, with just one word, just one syllable. I hear her voice, moaning softly, then whimpering my name, and at this point, there's no turning back.

My name. Jesus, she said my name. She /whimpered/ my name. My life will never again be the same, now that I've heard my name expel from her lips in this context. Never. I stroke my cock through the denim, and fight hard not to moan in response.

I shouldn't be doing this. It's a severe invasion of privacy, and I know it. But God, my knees are absolutely rooted to this floor. I couldn't move even if I wanted to. And despite all of this- this unexpected turn of events- despite it all, I still know what I felt, sitting back in those woods. I felt her needing me, felt her pulling me, felt her calling me.

And I felt her tears, I know it.

I can hear her moving on her bed, rocking, rhythmic, and then her harsh gasp, "Jesus!", as she's moaning and whimpering and humming.

As long as I've known her, I've tried to imagine the sounds she'd make, and already I can tell that I've been wrong. My imagination couldn't come close to capturing the life behind her sighs, the passion behind her gasps, the intensity behind her moans.

I can't help it. I need to touch myself. Before I can convince myself otherwise, my zipper is down and my cock is in my hands, straining, pulsing, reaching for her. As I stroke myself, God, I can almost pretend that it's her hands, small and cool, sliding up and down as she whispers my name.

I close my eyes, training my ears to discount the road noise, the air conditioner, the hum of the mini-fridge, and focus solely on the bed on the other side of that door. Her breaths, quick and shallow, her skin, rustling against the sheets, her fingers, slick and sliding, wet… The bed creaks slightly with her movements, and I mimic the rhythm, rocking my hips to meet hers as my hand fists around my cock.

Her voice again, "…God, Mulder, please…," whimpered between sharp gasps, layered beneath low moans. Sweat is running down my temple, forced out as my body protests the great restraint I'm exhibiting.

"Please…," again, but this time with a bit more desperation. And, shit, as she becomes more desperate, so do I, my eyes clenched shut, my head thrown back, my hips pumping into my hands. Oh God, Scully…, Jesus, I want you so much…

But then something changes. Her next frenzied plea, "Please, Mulder, please…" is tinged with sadness, despair. I stop moving, trying to hear.

Her movements are frantic, the bed grunting with her efforts. But her moans have turned sad and whimpering and aching. Desperate.

"…Please…," she is distraught, crumbling and wet, and the word dissolves before it can be completed.

And then, her tears. I hear her tears. And my heart stops beating.

Immediately, I grow limp in my hands, no longer aroused, only yearning for her, yearning to comfort her, to go to her.

I am up and heading for the connecting door before I know what I'm doing.

But I stop before I reach it, realizing that there's no way I can go in there right now. No way I can expose her like this. And so I stand, my back against the wall, and I listen.

I listen as her cries turn to sobs, hopeless and filled with angst. And my heart breaks, as I squeeze my eyes shut and clench my hands into fists, trying to restrain myself.

Her wrenching sobs after Padgett, I thought those were the hardest sounds I'd ever hear. But I was so wrong. When she cried that day, she was in my arms, surrounded by me. I was with her. But now, this… God, I don't know whether I'm going to be able to survive this.

Her tears, I can feel them, filling the air, slithering through the cracked door and wrapping themselves around me, stinging my skin, burrowing underneath, flooding me until I can't breathe. I feel weak, and I slide down the wall, collapsing onto the floor, my limp cock still hanging between my legs.

I listen until I can't anymore, the sound becoming absolutely unbearable. I fist my hands over my ears and crouch my head between my knees, ready for an air raid, but knowing that this is much, much worse. I can handle wreckage of property. The thing I can't handle is wreckage of her soul.

In my mind, that urn that holds her tears is filling, and every minute that passes means it is closer to overflowing. I can't let that happen. I am the keeper of her tears. It is my responsibility to make sure that doesn't happen. Yet, what can I do?

A war is waging in my mind, and I am struggling to discern the right answer. Going to her now would be a mistake, I'm sure of it. She could never forgive me for my actions tonight. Yet, how… how can I listen to her sobs and do nothing about it? I pound my fists against my skull, hoping to wrest the answer from the mess of anxiety in my head.

But slowly, slowly they begin to lessen. They slip and they fade until the only sound left is her breathing and an occasional hitch deep in her throat. The calm after the storm. After a few moments of silence, I hear her moving on the bed, fabric sliding against skin, and I can only assume she has lain down to go to sleep.

And I am left, sitting here against our shared wall, berating myself for my inadequacy. How many years have I wanted her? How many times have I failed her? How many tears has she shed that I haven't been able to collect?

I can't stand it. It physically pains me that she was crying alone, surrounded by musty hotel bedding and stale hotel air. And it pains me that she was crying in part because of me. She was begging me, pleading with me, touching herself while thinking about me, and I wasn't there.

I wasn't there for her.

…

I cry until there are no tears left, until my eyes are dry and swollen, and I'm left curled into an embryonic ball amidst a placenta of hotel blankets. I lie still for a few minutes, until my breathing has returned to normal, and though the emptiness is still there, I've reached a state of calm, of acceptance.

I know the tears will come again- I can still feel them swimming just below the surface- and the holes will re-emerge- they haven't yet been filled- but for now, I'm tired, and I want to sleep. It's amazing how exhausting the release of emotion can be.

I sit up and pull my pajamas back on, then slide beneath the sheets. And within minutes of closing my eyes, I'm asleep.

…..

Minutes pass, or is it hours? I have no idea- my brain cannot accurately process time while the echoes of her sobs still hang in the air.

How can I have been such a coward? How can I not have seen the want in her eyes before now, the desire in her heart? My heart aches as I think about it. It's reaching for her, reaching through the wall to her lying on the other side. And her heart is reaching for me as well, I can feel it. I said that her tears have bound us together. That once that urn is full, I'm not going to be able to resist going to her, engulfing her, holding her against my chest forever.

I think that tonight, that urn is finally full. I think enough tears have been shed.

And I'm going to do something about it.

I stand up and tuck myself back together. I scrub my hands over my face, trying to erase the anguish and pain of the last few hours. I take a deep breath.

And then I walk through the door into her room.

As I enter, I expect her to still be awake, and I brace myself for her realization that I've been next door all along. But I'm wrong. She's not awake. Glancing at the clock, I realize I've been ruminating in my room for much longer than I realized. Hours have passed. In fact, Scully's sleeping so peacefully I stop in my tracks just to look at her. Dropping to my knees next to the bed brings us face to face, and I can't help the sting in my eyes at her absolute beauty.

Her eyes are puffy and her mascara has run, there are dried tear-tracks on her cheeks, yet she is still so breathtakingly beautiful, it hurts. I sit back on my heels as I look, and feel such an overwhelming tenderness in my heart for her. She is so strong, yet so fragile, and I ache for her to allow me in.

I watch her for several minutes, timing my breaths with her own, just taking in her presence now that she is at peace.

I stop myself from reaching out to touch her skin. My fingers twitch with desire to trace a path around her features, stopping and visiting each landmark on the way. But I don't want to wake her, so my eyes travel the path instead. Eyebrows, eyes, nose, cheeks, chin, and finally her lips, they all receive some attention, and all are well worth the trip.

And though I never physically touch her, my eyes must have some weight of their own, because just their perusal of her face is enough to rouse her from her dreams.

She awakens slowly, eyes cracking open drowsily before they widen and fix on my own. But there's no surprise there, no fear, just us. Her head remains on her pillow, her hands tucked beneath, and we look. Just inches apart, we look deep into each other's eyes, and then she whispers, "I felt you here, Mulder..."

Cocking my head so that it's more aligned with hers, I smile at her and reach my hand out to tenderly brush through the hair at her forehead, feeling such an intimacy in this moment. She smiles sleepily back at me, then grows more serious as her eyes search mine, for what I'm not sure. And as I watch, her eyes begin to glisten. They grow wet, welling with tears. I stroke her forehead again, trying to soothe the lines that have appeared there as I murmur, "Sssshhh, Scully, don't cry…, please don't cry…"

I can see the struggle behind her eyes as she tries to regain control, but I can tell the exact second she gives in and lets the tears begin to spill. I cup her cheek in my palm, but her face crumbles against my hand.

Her tears spill over my fingers, hot and wet, and I am suddenly frantic with wanting to stop them, to keep them from overflowing the urn. I begin to stand, to do something, when she grasps hold of my wrist, looks up at me and whispers through her tears, "My heart hurts, Mulder…make it go away…, it hurts so bad…, please make it go away…"

And I'm in the bed with her, wrapped around her, before I even realize what I'm doing. And she's crying against my chest and clutching at my shirt, and all I can think about is how I can make it all go away for her.

….

His eyes, delving within my own, they are too powerful, too intense. I don't want to cry anymore, but his eyes, I can't hold back my tears when he looks at me like that. With such tenderness, such invitation, they draw me in, inviting me to lay down all my heartaches before them.

And so I do, quite literally, lay my aching heart before him. Make it go away, I beg through my tears, please make it go away, Mulder. Because I know. I know that he will. I know that he can. I know that he is the key to make it all go away, and I'm finally ready to allow him access.

He climbs into my bed and gathers me in his arms, and I've been yearning for this for so, so many years, all I can do is sob against his chest. My heart, pressed against his own, begins to calm, and I clutch his shirt, trying to hold him to me for as long as he'll allow.

His arms wrap around my body, and his hands stroke through my hair so gently, while his cheek rests atop my head. I know he is trying to absorb my pain. He is shushing me and rocking me and cradling me, and I feel so safe, so whole. Worlds away from the emptiness I felt just a short time ago.

Gradually, a calm overtakes me. My tears fade, and we lie embraced for long minutes, savoring.

His low voice rumbles against my ear as he murmurs, "Feeling better now?"

"Yes, thank you," I whisper back.

Yet neither of us makes a move to separate.

My head lies against his warm chest, listening to his heart beat, and somewhere along the way, my hands have worked their way around his waist, our legs intertwined. His hand still soothes through my hair, and the other along my back. Up and down, around and around, the motion is hypnotizing in its repetition.

My breaths become shallow as I lie and inhale him. I'm in my own little Mulder-world, surrounded by him, with only his neck and chest in my immediate view, and I have to admit, it's a little intoxicating. The air around him is warm and humid and musky, and I am drunk on it, having a hard time not nuzzling my nose against his neck to breathe him in more fully.

The energy around us begins to change. Like a summer drizzle moving languidly through a field, tiny pinpricks of rain alight on my skin, tiny tingles buzz along my body, and all the spots we touch suddenly buzz with electricity.

As the minutes pass, his touch dissolves into one that is much less consoling, and much more enticing. His fingers find the hem of my pajama top and delve beneath. And as he strays along the skin of my back, the gasp from my mouth and flinch of my muscles are hard to deny. I tuck my forehead against his shoulder, focusing on his touch and biting my lip to keep from moaning.

Tit for tat, I slide my own fingers below his hem and let them wander in the valley between his latissimi dorsi. He is less restrained than I, and releases a groan that travels straight from his throat to my belly, melting there like chocolate.

At this point, nothing has been acknowledged, nothing has been confirmed, but this lazy soup we're swimming in is growing warmer and spicier by the minute. We have yet to even look at each other, but we're lying on the edge of something here, we're in this strange space of knowing and not knowing, and allowing our eyes to meet would break that.

So instead, we explore at our leisure, his fingers finding places that make me sigh, and mine doing the same for him. And as we paint each other's skin, we fill and we heal and we complete.

Soon, I give up trying to suppress my sighs and moans, and I arc my body, searching for his hands as they move. He submits as well, and the vibration of his groans against my cheek is enough to make me press against him intimately.

"God…, Scully…," he grunts, and the charade is over. We have shifted from questionably platonic to ohmygodIwantyou within the span of a minute. He has acknowledged us, and we are in it for real. But I'm not afraid. In fact, I'm ready.

I turn and nuzzle my nose against his warm neck, then open my mouth against the skin at his clavicle and take a taste. And oh, is it divine. God, I could live here in this space below his chin, with my only sustenance the sweat from his pores and the salt from his skin. I cradle his nape, and I am in this fully. His stubbled jaw scratches like the Navajo blanket he keeps on his couch, but I don't mind, because they are both him.

His hands tangle in my hair as my lips make their way toward his mouth. I have dreamt about his mouth for so many years, I am beside myself wanting to taste it. To suck his lower lip between my teeth and nibble, and listen to him growl in response. I follow his jaw, but before I reach my destination, he pulls away and holds my face in his hands, thumbs stroking my cheeks as he looks into my eyes.

I am transported back to his hallway, years ago, when he held me this same way. There are other things that are the same, too, but there are also so many things that are different. My face is still tear-stained and my soul is still exposed, but now, we are pressed against one another, breaths panting, bodies trembling. Hearts speaking, beating, merging.

And this time, there are no bees.

….

Her gaze ping-pongs between my lips and my eyes, and her shortened breaths puff against my chin. My thumbs melt against the warmth of her cheekbones as I hold her in front of me. She is exquisite.

It's so hard to restrain myself when all I want is to completely devour her. But I need to stop, at least for a moment. I need to make sure this is right, that she's ready, that she isn't just falling from her tears.

"Scully…," her name caresses my tongue as it expels, and I savor its taste.

She responds with downcast eyes and barely a whisper, "Mulder…"

"Are you sure, Scully?" my voice is rough from desire, but I need to know.

"Mulder," her voice is low, intimate, "I've realized something tonight." Her hand sweeps through my hair, down my cheek. She is the most wondrous creature in the world. "I've realized something about myself, about my heart."

I cradle her head, drawing it toward me until the air between our foreheads dissolves, and we are merged into one. Craniopagus twins, connected for life.

"I realized that my heart has been aching for years," she says, "perhaps my whole life." Her fingertip draws lazy circles over the left side of my chest. "But I never noticed it, I never paid attention. Until tonight. Tonight, I realized how much pain I've been in." I can hear the tears at the back of her throat, and my hands are restless against her neck.

"How, Scully?" I'm surprised at how broken my own voice sounds.

She pulls away, her eyes wet as she looks within me. "I realized it when you held me, Mulder. My pain, it was gone, and until I felt my heart beat without it, I had no idea what I had been missing." The tears run freely down her cheeks, but they are swallowed by the creases of her smile. "You set my heart free, Mulder, and it is flying through the clouds now."

Her smile is the most breathtaking thing I have ever seen, even amidst her tears. And as I lose myself in the ocean of her eyes, I realize that these tears are different. They are even more powerful than those I've collected in the past. These are tears of joy, and my God, they are precious. In my mind, I quickly find another urn, this one even more ornate and more exquisite than the first, and I drop each of the tears gently inside, reveling in their beauty.

She looks up at me and murmurs, "Fill me, Mulder."

And I understand completely. I know exactly what she means, because it is what I need as well- to be filled, to be completed, to be fit together so precisely that our collective whole is greater than anything we could be apart.

Simultaneously, we reach for each other, and when we meet in the middle, it's epic.

…

I have never felt this alive, and I have never felt this unfurled. I have also never felt a mouth this sublime pressed against my own. I opened my soul to him, and he embraced it. And now he's in the process of embracing my body as well.

It is divine, the way his lips move across mine, first soft and sensual, then harsh and frenzied. We are absolutely starved for each other, consuming, gorging, devouring. So many years of want and need and desperation behind our kisses. And when our hungers have been momentarily sated, we continue our exploration, languid and unhurried, melting against one another like butter on whole wheat toast.

our tongues practice new languages in each other's mouths, our hands find forbidden places, held secret for seven, long years- the nape of a neck, the crook of an elbow, the dip of a chin. It is dizzying how much there is to learn, how many years there are to take back, and the thought of it is as exciting as it is overwhelming.

But there will be time for new discoveries later. Tonight is about need and fulfillment and hearts beating together as one.

I look into his eyes. They are dark and predatory, and I am dizzy at the thought of being his prey.

I press my lips to his, then whisper against his ear.

"Mulder, make love to me… please…"

….

Her voice at my ear is the sweetest thing I've ever heard. A canary's song, a violin concerto, an operatic ballad, none are as exquisite as the sound of Scully's throaty voice asking me to make love to her tonight.

She pulls back to look at me, her breaths quick and her eyes questioning, as if I could deny her. I stroke my hand down her cheek and answer her, my voice husky with emotion, "God yes, Scully."

And we draw together as if our lives depended on it, lips and hands and bodies in a tangle as we navigate silk pajamas and jeans and t-shirts. And oh my God, to see her bared naked before me, lips parted, skin flushed, and body trembling, she is more than my sun, more than my mountain, more than anything I have ever hoped for in my entire life.

I tell her with lips pressed against her breast, "You are my everything, Scully. My everything."

…

We are a labyrinth of limbs lying on the bed, damp flesh against damp flesh as hands and lips and mouths explore new territory. God, his heated skin against my own is more than I ever imagined, more than I ever dared hope for. Why did we ever deny ourselves this?

Murmured words and whimpered cries and surnames gasped into the air are the only language I ever wish to speak in the future. And if Mulder is the only other person on the entire planet who understands me, then I will be more than fulfilled.

He kisses the skin over my heart with wet lips, and tells me I am his everything. My heart hitches in my chest. My pain is gone, utterly and absolutely, I realize as tears sting at my eyes. And as he slides his hand over my belly, I feel more than just my heartache disappearing. Those holes that I described, those holes that burrow so deeply within me, his hand is fitting inside. His hand is sliding right inside those holes and he is filling them.

His tongue, sliding across the scar at the back of my neck, fills the hole left after my abduction. His hand, intertwined with my own, fills the hole left from Melissa's death. His mouth, closed over my nipple, fills the hole left from losing a daughter I never had. His nose, nuzzling against my own, fills the hole left from my ravaging cancer. Every time he touches my body, he fills another hole, he heals another wound.

And I want to do the same for him. He has mountains of hurts and heartaches, maybe even steeper than my own. I want to heal him as he is healing me. I want to fill his holes, complete his emptiness, mend his wounds.

He rises above me and looks in my eyes. I reach for him, brushing through the hair at his forehead. I can't keep from smiling. I am his everything, but he is /my/ everything, too. I wrap my legs around him and draw him against me, hard meeting soft, and it is bliss. He nudges at my entrance, and my eyes roll back in my head as I arch to meet him.

And we join, and we join, and we join, and it is an experience so beyond that my teeth ache. And I had forgotten how elemental and fulfilling this kind of joining could be. My God, we are hands and lips and fingers and genitals, and we are in sync and in concert and in unison. We are an undulating cocoon, wrapped tight with threads that merge us completely.

I try to absorb him as he tries to absorb me, and in the process, we become a separate being, particles of each of us swirling together in the air. And as our voices reach a fevered pitch, moans and gasps and cries into the night, I can feel it. I can feel my heart. Reaching. Reaching out to him. I press my chest against his as I enfold him in my arms, and I feel his heart as well. And it is thrumming, thrumming against the wall of his chest against my own. And it is ecstasy, to feel them pressed against each other, beating simultaneously . It is like nothing I've ever felt before.

I'm quickly rising to the pinnacle, but I need to know. I need to know if he feels it. "Mulder…," I gasp between his thrusts, "Do you… feel it? ...Do you feel… our hearts?"

He buries his head in the crook of my neck, his gasping breaths hot and humid. "My God, Scully…, our hearts…, they're speaking…, they're connecting…"

"Mulder…," I whisper, "They're making love…" And at that point, he pounds into me so hard, I am completely undone. It is absolutely divine, feeling him empty himself inside me, filling me and filling me and filling me. And as I let myself go, sobbing his name into his neck, I hold him against me while tears stream down my cheeks in joy.

…..

I open my eyes to her still lying beneath me, soft and warm and amazing against my chest. And as I start to slide away, she tugs me back, softly murmuring, "Stay, Mulder…, just for a minute," into my shoulder. So I close my eyes and burrow my face back down into the honey of her neck. And I'd like nothing more than to stay here forever, my skin melting against hers as our breaths mingle in the sex-filled air surrounding us.

It is the first time in my life I have felt absolutely complete, absolutely fulfilled, and I'm almost afraid to open the door to the real world beyond these four enchanted walls. There is some kind of magic here, and I don't want it ever to lose its power.

We lie for long moments, nuzzling and nudging, noses and chins and lips, still caught in that passionate dance of a few minutes ago. The air around our faces is blurred and gauzy and slightly intoxicating. I close my eyes and bask in it.

Until I feel the wet on my cheek. Pulling back my head, I see tears sliding down her cheeks, and I begin to panic.

But ever my savior, she sees my distress and quickly assures me, "They're happy tears, Mulder, very happy tears," then slides her fingers through the hair at the back of my neck.

And I remember the new urn I created, the one that holds only tears of joy. I reach for her cheek and I kiss them each away, licking the salty remains and dropping them into the urn. And the music they make as they drop to the bottom rivals that of a Beethoven symphony.

We gaze at each other until she slowly rolls us over. She takes my hand and places it against her heart, then does the same with her hand against my own. And we listen. And we feel. And they are beating. Thump-thump, thump- thump, thump-thump. And it is glorious music, the rhythm of our hearts. They are pulsing and throbbing and beating, all in perfect unison. Her heart and my heart.

Together.

At last.

She lifts my hand to the warmth of her lips, and kisses my palm as my fingers curl into her cheek. Then she looks in my eyes and whispers, "Mulder, I have a beautiful story to tell you…"


End file.
